In Which There Are Socks
by ThisCouldTheoreticallyBeSparta
Summary: England and America are late for a meeting. A discussion about socks ensues. A late birthday present for Nasty Show.


IN WHICH THERE ARE SOCKS

Author: Pixie-Rings

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia

Pairing: England/America

Genre: humour, shameless fluff

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya, and the countries factually belong to themselves. Or their bosses and the people that live there, rather.

Word count:

Warning: socks, socks everywhere!

Summary: England and America are late for a meeting. A discussion about socks ensues.

A/n: A late birthday present for Nasty_Show. There's not much nakeyness and no KitKats, but there are large paragraphs on socks. Happy Birthday, dear. Admire my mad naming skillz.

.

"Oh, do hurry up, America!"

America pulled on his dress shirt with a roll of his eyes and a short huff. England was almost always like this before a meeting, it was nothing new. And America was always a little late – fashionably late, as France would say. Heroes always appeared in the nick of time, after all.

Not that England was more prepared than America anyway. He himself was just tugging on his own shirt and trying, in vain, to make his hair cooperate (America would have loved to snuggle his face into that permanent bed hair, but England might hit him and would certainly call him something imaginatively British). They'd both slept far too late that morning, thanks to the night before, and now England was pissed off. Well, even more pissed off than usual. America just pulled his trousers on, ignoring England's background cursing as the other nation dashed around the room looking for his favourite tie.

America sat on the chair in the corner, socks in hand, and tugged them on. England appeared to have found his tie and began tying it in a rush. Suddenly, halfway done, he stopped. And started staring at America's feet.

"America, what in God's name are _those_?"

America looked down, eyebrows raised, hitching up his trouser legs. "The socks?" He grinned. "Why? D'you like them?"

England just shook his head in disbelief. "They're the most undignified things I've ever seen," he said. America's grin just widened.

"Aw, come on, England, they're awesome!" As if to emphasise their awesomeness he raised his feet and propped them on the bed, wiggling his toes.

One foot had an Old Glory sock on. The other had the Union Flag. Both were loud, obnoxious and typically American. England just shook his head again with an exasperated sigh.

"They don't even match," he said. They didn't. Anyone could see the Union Flag one was considerably shorter, ending just about America's ankle, than the Stars and Stripes one, which came up to about mid-calf. America pouted.

"Of course they _match_!" he protested.

"America…" he began in his talking-to-the-colony tone.

"Look, one's your flag, one's mine. They have to go together. Of course they match."

He seemed inordinately proud of this statement, folding his arms and nodding his head firmly. England blinked for a moment, then chuckled.

"Oh, you are such a silly thing," he said affectionately, walking across the room to kiss him on the top of the head. America grinned sheepishly and planted his feet on the floor, getting up to look for his own tie.

He found it lashed somewhere in the corner of the room. As he turned back to the bed, he noticed England doing something very peculiar.

"You still wear sock garters?" he asked incredulously. England looked up from where he was fixing the thin strap just above his calf and frowned.

"Of course," he said, as if America was being stupid on purpose. America just sat on the bed next to England, his tie loose around his neck, watching England tug his sock on and clip it up.

"_You_ used to wear them too," England added defiantly. America chuckled.

"Yeah well, that was until _elastic_," he pointed out. England was just about to place his foot down when America grabbed his ankle, raising England's leg to about chest level.

"What the Dickens -?"

"Relax, babe…" America muttered absently, running his hand along the top of England's foot. He had to admit – stodgy and old-fashioned as sock garters were, they _did_ suit England. They made the plan grey-green sock practically creaseless, accentuating the curve of his calf and maybe his nice legs even nicer. And America did love England's legs, from the bony ankle to the jutting hip bone. Even the knobbly knees.

"Don't call me that," England muttered. He'd been saying that since the late Forties, so he wasn't expecting a positive outcome to his request.

"Ok, _sweetheart_," America cooed jokingly, almost earning himself a kick in the face for his insolence. He ignored England's brief rebellion and leant down to kiss his ankle through the sock. He glanced up to see England's face as he continued along his boyfriend's calf, and he was delighted to see how red he had become.

"S-stop that! We still have a meeting to go to, you know!"

America let England's foot drop into his lap, keeping a gentle hold of it as he watched England put on his other sock, a little huffily, before he wrenched his foot out of the American nation's grasp and stomped over to where his suit was hanging up.

"You're cute when you're flustered," America said, starting to tie his tie with well-trained movements. He earned himself a coat hanger to the head for that.

Finally, after about ten more minutes of what America called hi-jinks and England called dawdling, they were at the door, America pulling his suit jacket on.

"Ok, I'm ready!" he announced. England just snorted and began adjusting his tie. America rolled his eyes. "England, come on…"

"Hush, you daft thing," England ordered. "When will you learn to do a half-Windsor like everyone else?"

"Hey, the four-in-hand's always done me good!"

"Your brother does a wonderful Windsor knot," England said wistfully. "Unlike you. Always sloppy, even with cravats." He continued trafficking with America's tie until he had an acceptable half-Windsor, nodding at his handiwork, well pleased.

America muttered something that sounded half-hurt and half-mutinous, and England slapped him on the shoulder.

"Of course I don't want your brother, stupid boy," he said, using America's tie to drag him down into a kiss. "You're the one I've always wanted. Sloppiness and all."

That just made America beam like a lighthouse and take England's hand as they headed down the corridor to the lift.

"You know we're late, right?" America said matter-of-factly as he pressed the first floor button (England reached around and pressed the zero, because America never remember that there was a ground floor in Europe).

"When aren't we late?" England mused, shrugging. "I just hope no one sees what you're wearing on your feet under your trousers."

"Don't worry about that!"

Five minutes later, once they were sitting at the meeting table, Ukraine cocked her head to the side, staring past England at America.

"America… Your socks are very cute," she said with a small giggle.

England let his head fall on the table with a groan.


End file.
